


Storytelling

by flecksofpoppy



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Marco Bodtom Week 2015, Quiet Sex, canonverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 06:08:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4949608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone asks why Jean talks so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Storytelling

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Marco Bodtom Week 2015 for Day One, "Keep it Quiet."

Everyone asks why Jean talks so much.

He’s always got something to say—offhand remarks to make about how to peel potatoes the fastest, how to conserve gas while using the ODM gear—always delivered with a self-assured swagger as he airs his views on every topic under the sun.

Marco, on the other hand, has an uncontroversial reputation in the 104th. He’s skilled at keeping the peace, always firm but diplomatic, and generally maintains a bright disposition, even when the going gets tough. 

Everyone also asks why upstanding Marco Bodt hangs around with _Jean_ so much, how he stands Jean’s constant self-satisfied yammering.

Of course, this only includes exchanges in front of other people.

Today, they’re both on potato peeling duty, and despite Jean’s claims to the contrary, he’s taking his sweet time. It’s too hot to think, much less brag about potato peeling talents, but Marco has started telling a story that he aims to finish, if only to distract himself from the summer heat.

“So,” he continues, working mindlessly since he’s been assigned this duty a thousand times before, “when I tried to catch the fish, it slipped _right_ out of my hands!” He laughs, shaking his head.

Jean shoots him a bored look. “Do you just relive every single moment of your life when you’re with me?” he quips dryly, full of forced annoyance. “Do you _ever_ shut up?”

“You like my stories,” Marco retorts airily, shoving the toe of his boot playfully against Jean’s in reprimand. “If you didn’t, you’d tell me to hush up.”

“No, I’d tell you to _shut_ up,” Jean corrects, tossing his peeled potato into the woefully near-empty pail between them. “I’m not afraid to tell it like it is, country boy.” He’s characteristically smarmy as he stands up to stare down at Marco haughtily, crossing his arms and cocking a hip.

Marco snorts and rolls his eyes, but doesn’t argue. One of Jean’s favorite ways to irritate him is by calling him country boy, and although Trost isn’t exactly the lap of luxury, he’ll concede that it is indeed a city, which Jinae is not.

The fact is, that in general, Jean is really annoying. He’s the biggest pain in the ass Marco’s ever met, the most pompous know-it-all, and also the most ridiculous when he’s trying to showboat.

The fact also is, though, that Marco couldn’t love another human being more than Jean if he tried.

For all of Jean’s posturing and bullshit, he means what he says, and he’s sincere. Marco personally considers this one of the finest qualities another human being can have, and one that not many people possess.

And there’s the ever-so-minor detail that he pretty much always wants to kiss that irritating, loud mouth.

“So, why haven’t you told me to shut up then?” Marco challenges, breaking out of his thoughts. 

Jean shrugs—a quick bunch and drop of his shoulders that means he’s thinking something he doesn’t want to share—and he just sighs gustily. “You’re so dramatic. Maybe I like hearing your stupid stories about catching fish with your hands and your weird sisters.”

Marco grins, tossing a peeled potato into the pail—that’s a count of four for Marco, and one for Jean—simply enjoying the company. Quiet moments like these are few and far in between.

Jean leans against the wall of the barn they’re sitting next to, crossing his arms thoughtfully. “No one would believe me if I said you actually talk more than me.”

“Nope,” Marco agrees. “You’ve got the biggest mouth in the 104th.”

Jean shrugs, but doesn’t argue. He almost considers it a point of pride now, especially since he claims not only does he have the biggest mouth, but unlike “some people,” he has “shit to say that makes sense.”

“No,” Jean retorts immediately, fixing his gaze on Marco, “you have the biggest mouth for sure.”

He feels the scrutiny, and inadvertently looks up to meet Jean’s eyes without intending to, immediately caught in an intense stare.

“What?” he asks softly, seemingly unable to look away. When Jean doesn’t answer, just staring, Marco adds nervously, “You want to hear the story about the cow again?”

Jean doesn’t answer, taking a few steps backward to glance around the edge of the building, craning his neck; Marco’s mouth goes dry, and he tries to keep his nerves at ease.

Not only does Marco want to kiss that annoying mouth, but he has, and more than that.

“Nobody around,” Jean remarks innocently once he confirms the coast is clear, taking two broad strides forward to push the bushel of potatoes away and grab Marco by his chest harness, hauling him up. Jean is stronger than he looks, and Marco feels the breath leave him as he’s swung around and ends up with his back against rough wood and Jean’s mouth on his neck.

“W-what if someone comes?” Marco stammers, trying not to moan as Jean unfastens the top button of his shirt and tugs the collar away, pushing his lips eagerly against a collarbone. “I...”

He feels the fingers of Jean’s free hand slide up into his hair, gentle and deft, a hidden grace that Marco knows is there, whether or not Jean is aware of it yet.

Marco gasps as a knee pushes up between his legs, and he thoughtlessly grinds against it, unable to catch his breath.

“But we’re going to get in trouble,” he murmurs, belying his words as his hips shift forward and he hangs on tightly to Jean, “and—” 

“Remember what I said?” Jean murmurs, his voice a little shaky too, edged with lust and something else. The more times they’ve ended up like this in the past six months, the more confident he’s become, but he still falters.

“Um,” Marco pants, tilting his head back and prompting Jean to kiss at his throat, “that I should... the story... I had...”

“Shut up, Marco,” Jean commands simply. 

Oh. That.

Marco’s eyelashes flutter shut, and he moans.

“Remember?” comes a whisper suddenly at his ear, hot breath against his lobe. 

“Jean,” Marco murmurs, turning his face to brush his cheek against Jean’s. It’s an intimate gesture, but Jean doesn’t shy away. Instead, he smiles a little as he turns his head at the same time, brushing his lips against Marco’s.

Marco fights back sounds, biting his hand as Jean pulls out his neatly tucked in shirt, undoes the buckles of all the ODM belts and harness with ease, and then slides a hand into the impeccably starched pants. 

By the time Jean’s hand is down the front of his pants, Marco feels like he’s trying to swallow his own breath, desperate to make a sound, to scream; and it only becomes more intense with each second he’s not allowed to give into the sensation. It doesn’t even matter that Jean’s still learning how Marco likes to be touched, or that the restriction of his pants makes it hard to stroke; a whine escapes Marco’s throat.

“Be quiet,” Jean growls again, slowly sinking to his knees as he kisses down Marco’s chest through his shirt, and then lower to reach bare skin of hipbone. 

Marco just nods numbly, beside himself as he tries to focus on not letting his vocal chords vibrate, not letting the sound pour out of his mouth.

“Oh god,” he screams silently into the air, pressing the back of his head desperately against the rough wood, unbuttoned shirttails brushing against his skin and sweat beading at his brow.

His brain is no longer working as he helps Jean to get his pants off, discarded carelessly on the ground, completely naked from the waist down as Jean takes Marco’s cock into his mouth. 

Marco’s desperately hoping in his haze of lust and arousal that Jean will try again for what they started to last time late at night in the bunks—a failed attempt that had still felt good, but resulted in a lot of blushing, apologies, and awkwardness.

It seems that hasn’t deterred Jean, though, and Marco loops his knee over Jean’s shoulder, clapping both hands over his mouth to stay silent. His eyes water with tears as he Jean pulls back, spits on his fingers; and then there’s a wet heat around Marco’s cock and a single index finger teasing at his entrance.

His hips buck even though he tries to hold back, but Jean takes it in stride, slapping Marco’s thigh in reproval as he sucks carefully, testing the reactions he gets.

This feeling is still new, and Marco stifles a sob, arching his back and banging his head against the wall. The roughness of the hewn wood against his shoulders is actually a relief, a counterpoint to the overwhelmingly ecstatic things happening below his waist.

He’s going to make a sound; it’s unavoidable, and he knows it’s going to happen. Yet he feels an unfamiliar sensation of eagerness to see what will happen wash over him, as if he’s at Jean’s mercy.

He likes it, and he gets a tingle through his entire body as he finally lets a long, low moan slip out of his throat.

Sure enough, Jean seems to like this game—as Jean is wont to do if competition is involved—and he immediately pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and standing up.

“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?” he asks, raising an eyebrow, looking Marco up and down. It’s amazing how much more confidence he’s gained in a short time.

“I thought you liked my stories,” Marco retorts softly, teasing. He smiles a little, tilting his head to the side.

“I do,” Jean replies in the same dulcet tone, an unexpectedly somber note entering his voice, “I don’t want you to tell them to anyone else.”

Marco’s eyes widen, and finally Jean does blush; it’s just not about something he expected.

And then Jean’s mouth is on his again, kissing him deeply, before pulling back to whisper into Marco’s ear, “They’re for me, right?”

Marco sighs, closing his eyes, body feeling heavy and heartbeat thrumming through every part of him. “Yeah,” he agrees quietly, reveling in the feeling of Jean’s hand in his hair against as he presses close and kisses Marco’s words away.

Now, Marco feels the freedom to moan, to loose words and sounds into the safety of Jean’s mouth, to confess a million things and tell stories he wouldn’t want to tell anyone else, to talk as much as he wants and be the one with the biggest mouth in the 104th.

He wants to give all his words to Jean, all of his stories.

Jean’s a good kisser, lips surprisingly soft and agile much like his hands, and Marco feels completely disassembled, messy, and clumsy. As soon as Jean shifts his hips forward, Marco shudders through the kisses, cock still overly sensitive. He orgasms hard, trembling, and then leans heavily against Jean.

They remain like that—Marco emptied of stories, bound by Jean’s words, holding precious secrets—and he sighs.

In the shed shell of his harness and Jean’s arms, he closes his eyes and obeys, quiet.


End file.
